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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29244435">Questions of Coat and Waistcoat</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/corpseductor/pseuds/corpseductor'>corpseductor</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Fallen London | Echo Bazaar</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Canon-Typical Sexual Content, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, M/M, Mentions of CSA as Backstory, Some Seeking Mr. Eaten's Name (and associated unpleasantness)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-06</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-03-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 10:47:02</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>8</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>13,649</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/29244435</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/corpseductor/pseuds/corpseductor</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>A Composer's search for revenge and a Rake's search for a card game, and their hapless intersection. A very obnoxious romantic rival. Urchins. Poetry. Destiny. Morelways! Secrets of the past uncovered, et cetera.</p><p>[Tags will be updated as the story progresses. This fic touches on sensitive subjects for narrative purposes only, so please read with caution.]</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>The Diminutive Rake / The Imprecatory Composer</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>5</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. 1875: in which the Seamstress gives a toast, of a fashion</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> Her husband had been so sweet when they first met.</p><p> She was tailoring a suit for him. He needed something new and striking for some University event. He spoke with such a soft voice, uncomfortably, as if he'd never seen a seamstress before - or, indeed, any woman at all. She and the other girls at the tailor's had teased him mercilessly about it behind his back for days, until he came back to see her with a great, fragrant bouquet of Surface flowers. She had been the object of such teasing from the other girls, then.</p><p> Persistent, but never demanding, he won her over soon enough. The fact he was a toff and she was working-class never seemed to be a consideration for him, and any obstacle they were faced with he surmounted without a moment's hesitation. They had been wed blissfully, and easily, and their little girl had come to them much the same way. Life was carefree and joyful with him.</p><p> At least, it had been.</p><p> She considered it one last time. If there was any hope of going back...</p><p> No. There wasn't.</p><p> She pulled the stopper from the little bottle. The rather questionable gentleman had insisted it was good for a permanent death, and she prayed she'd gotten her money's worth with it. Tasteless, he'd said it was. Every drop went into her Morelways.</p><p> She carried herself back into the dining room, composed. "Sorry, love. Can hardly believe I left the wine in the kitchen! Fool girl, I am."</p><p> He didn't say anything. He was face-down on the table, mumbling or laughing or both - like as not about that damned question of his. That was all it ever was anymore. He trembled and burst into uncontrollable, shrieking laughter. She quaffed her wine as quickly as she could.</p><p> "I don't want to eat any of this," he said shakily. "It isn't fresh."</p><p> "I expect not."</p><p> He looked up at her. Something of him remained for an instant - a dawning horror on his face - and then it was swallowed up in a sick and fevered smile. "Where is little Violet?"</p><p> She dropped the wine glass, intentionally letting it shatter on the floor. "You aren't seeing her ever again."</p><p> The noise he made was both roaring laughter and anguished scream. "You got rid of her!"</p><p> She felt dizzy, sleepy, weak. Not yet, not yet. Please not yet. "I'm not good enough for you, lovey?" Her speech was slurred already.</p><p> Another brief flash of him, close to tears, before he was swallowed up and buried away. He laughed, confused, terrified. "Of course. Come here - hah - I'm starving."</p><p> Quick as a flash, he climbed onto the table and darted at her, scattering plates and glasses and forks and knives across the room. She was too unsteady to flinch away, too weak to run, but it didn't matter. This was her plan.</p><p> He knocked her to the ground with his full weight, reducing her chair to splinters. He convulsed with quiet laughter for a moment, looking her over with wide, wild eyes. His face split into a grin. Then he opened his mouth, all teeth.</p><p> Falling asleep hurt. It was burning pain, but she couldn't see or hear or think. Everything was dark, every color devoured alive.</p><p> But not Violet.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. 1898: in which the Composer arrives at London</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <em>                                  Son,</em>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <em>          I realize you are now a man, and as such, it must hardly feel dignified to receive such a letter from your mother. Regardless, I must beg that you return to our estate in Thüringen at your earliest possible opportunity. London is home to many grave dangers, of which I am intimately familiar with no small number, and I do not wish for you to come to any harm. I understand you are still grieving dearly the loss of your Elisabeth, but she would never have wished for this - not for you to endanger yourself so, nor for vengeance. </em>
</p><p>
  <em>          If not for your sake, please return for mine. I will worry myself sick thinking of all which lurks in that deep pit, simply waiting to harm my dear little boy. You hardly want that, do you? If anything happens to you, my only little child, how shall I ever go on? It has been enough of a blow to lose sweet Elisabeth, who was, you must recall, an object of my everlasting fondness. To lose you with her is unthinkable.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>          Write to me as soon as you arrive in London, at the very least. I hope you will listen to sense and come home.</em>
</p><p>
  <br/>
  <em>                                  Love,</em>
  <br/>
  <em>                                          Your Mother</em>
</p><p> The Composer worried the parchment of his mother's letter between his fingers. Already he had read it what felt like a thousand times, drowning in a mire of tangled thoughts as he thought of her penning the desperate missive at her little writing desk, dragging the end of her quill across her face the way she had always done, back and forth. He so hated to make his mother unhappy, and already he missed her, and their sunny home in the countryside, and even the little townhouse he had once found so dreary and dull. She was worried sick already, he knew.</p><p> He leaned on the steamer's railing, staring out at the vast, flat Unterzee. If only it were as easy as his mother made it sound. With a deep sigh, he crumpled the letter in his hand and let it fall gently into the dark waters of the Cumaean Canal. London was not much further now. Whoever was so twisted and cruel as to harm Elisabeth, he would meet his swift end at the Composer's hand. There was nothing else for it, no turning back. She would never rest without justice, and neither would he, who had loved her so much. At least he could rest in the more literal sense. He would need a decent night's sleep upon his arrival at the docks, for there was much work to do.</p><p> Before he could descend to his cabin, a young woman leaned against the railing next to him. Her mode of dress was quite peculiar, he noted; she wore an excellently tailored suit. From the breast-pocket of her coat she produced a book of matches and a cigarette. "Interested in a smoke, sir?" Her accent was decidedly American. </p><p> "No."</p><p> "Straight to the point, aren't we," she chuckled. The American lit the cigarette and took a long drag. "So, what brings you to London? Business? Pleasure? Probably not <em>girls</em>, I'd wager."</p><p> "Business, of a sort." He adjusted his posture. "A...friend of mine requires a favor. I am here to assist her."</p><p> "Oh, with such a dark tone!" She laughed. "Are you out to rid her of her suitors?"</p><p> "She was murdered."</p><p> The American grimaced and broke eye contact. "Well. That's unpleasant." She took another drag of her cigarette.</p><p> "I should think so."</p><p> They were silent for some time. The Composer stared across the water, thinking at once of everything and nothing. The American flicked her finished cigarette into the zee and cleared her throat. "I'm down here on business, too."</p><p> "Mm."</p><p> "The fine business of violence!" She barked out a laugh. "I've heard stories of some terrible beast in London, one no man in his right mind would dare to hunt. Thought it sounded like as good a time as any."  She fiddled with her pockets again. "You're sure you don't want a smoke?"</p><p> "Yes. I'm sure."</p><p> She shook her head. "Well, suit yourself, then." The American lit herself another cigarette. "Girls down here, hmm...I've been before, once, you see." She paused, giving him something of a conspiratorial and not altogether wholesome look. "Well, London girls...they're a whole basket of fun. If you're interested in that sort of thing."</p><p> "What, women?"</p><p> "Obviously women. But like I said, I wouldn't take you for the type."</p><p> He didn't say anything. What on Earth was she getting at?</p><p> Apparently he was wearing a strange expression. "Hah! Confused, are you? Don't get your knickers in a twist, you'll figure it out."</p><p> "It's of no concern to me."</p><p> "Sure, sure. Business and all, dearly departed Miss What's-Her-Name, I get the picture." The American waved her hand dismissively. "Men are so funny. I've never met one who could stand to think about business and pleasure at the same time."</p><p> "It's hardly appropriate now."</p><p> "If you think your dead friend would object so much, why don't you just save yourself the trouble and join the clergy?" She smirked and flicked away the last of her second cigarette. "Less work than whatever it is you're so damn set on doing, I'm sure."</p><p> He stared at her incredulously. "Are you completely heartless, or do you simply lack anything resembling tact?"</p><p> The American laughed that barking laugh again. "Would you believe you're not the first to ask me that?"</p><p> "Readily." He straightened up and removed his arms from the railing. "I am going to retire."</p><p> "Night, then. I'll be at the Blind Helmsman when we make port, if you ever decide you want that smoke."</p><p> "I certainly won't."</p><p> "Hah! Prude."</p><p> He shot a glare over his shoulder at the American as he staggered across the deck to his cabin, unceremoniously colliding with a zailor at work. She snorted and laughed. He tried not to think of her as he descended the stairs and opened the door to his little respite.</p><p> Exhaustion finally caught up with him as he curled up on the firm cot, neglecting even to remove his shoes. He slipped into a dreamless sleep.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>  He was awoken by a bell ringing loudly, and the sound of a zailor passing through the hallway in the ship's hold. "Last call! Last call for Wolfstack Docks!"</p><p>  They'd finally arrived at London. Still a little bleary, he sprang out of bed and gathered his things. Above him, the ship's deck creaked; what few other passengers were left had no doubt already begun to disembark. He rushed out of his cabin, and the zailor gave him a bit of a look. "Sorry," he mumbled.</p><p> "Hurry it up, will you," she replied curtly.</p><p> The Composer was the last to leave the ship and step out onto the docks. All about him was the bustle of the city and the workers and the smoke belched from the furnaces of the countless steamers coming and going, mingling to form such a great din that he felt half-stunned. It was the light that surprised him most - the Neath was possessed of a darkness more smothering than pitch, without a doubt, but London more than compensated. Nearly every window of every home and shop glowed, providing a disorienting contrast to the oppressive gloom. The noise was incomparable. Everything was sights, sounds, motion. So many people. Did that man have the face of a <em>squid?</em> Was that man made of <em>clay?</em> Jesus, Mary and Joseph, what <em>time</em> was it? He checked his pocketwatch. Despite what his body may have insisted, it was eight in the morning.</p><p> A rough hand jostled him. "Out of the way!"</p><p> Right. He was at the docks, inconveniencing these busy people. What had the American said? She'd be at some place - some Helmsman's place? She was crass, but she might be some help. "I - pardon. Wait a moment. Where's the, ah, the Helmsman's -"</p><p> The rough-handed individual laughed at him. "Boy like you hasn't got no business there, no sir. That-a-way. Don't say I didn't warn you none!" They shook their head and hurried on their way, still chuckling to themselves.</p><p> He gripped the shoulder-strap of his bag and hurried on in the appointed direction. Before long he could see the sign looming above him - ah! so it was the <em>Blind</em> Helmsman - and followed it until he was safely at the door (or, he supposed, as safe as one might find himself at such an establishment). He gave a quick look around before darting inside.<br/> </p><p> "Oh, trying to do it that way's - you're - you're's like Thompson's colt," bellowed the American from atop a table, "you get your, your elbow in first, <em>then</em> you move in with the shiv. Like this!" She vigorously pantomimed a demonstration, spilling her pint all over her leg. Upon finishing this gesture, she spied the Composer. "Hah! Oh, there he is! Didn't think I'd see any more of you, you, you..." She burst into uncontrollable giggles and fell off the table. Her drinking companions laughed uproariously.</p><p> He gave her a hand up, and she nearly pulled him down with her when she took it. "You seem to be enjoying yourself already."</p><p> She snorted, suppressing another fit of giggles. "You sure - you - took a long time getting off that steamer."</p><p> "I was unfortunately rather late in rousing myself."</p><p> She shrieked with laughter. "Ouuuuh! Hah! Arousing yourself!"</p><p> Her drinking companions laughed with her. "Arousing! Like -"</p><p> "Rousing. As in waking from bed."</p><p> The American leaned on his shoulder, trying in vain to steady herself. "Hah, your poor Johnson..."</p><p> "I was getting out of bed. That's all."</p><p> "You wouldn't, wouldn't know any fun if it up and bit you on your nose," she slurred. Finally she managed to stand on her own. "Well! What's it you want, exactly? Dir -" she made some noise between a cough and a hiccup - "directions or something?"</p><p> Had he left it in his pocket? He felt around his chest for the little bundle - oh, good, there it was. The American watched as he produced from his breast-pocket a coin-purse, and from this, a few red petals and a slip of paper. "Would you happen to know anything about this?"</p><p> She took the slip first. "Scaaathewick," she mumbled drunkenly. "Mmm, haven't heard of him before." The American set it back in his hand with a little pat. "The - petals - hah, this looks like Exile's rose, but..."</p><p> One of her drinking companions, a bearded man, stood to inspect the petals with her. "Why, they're bright bloody red, so they is," he exclaimed. "You best not let any Constables catch you with that, eh? I hardly like the looks of it, no sir."</p><p> "If they - anything's - if it's about honey -"</p><p> "Honey?"</p><p> "From the rose, stupid." She vaguely swatted at the top of his head. "Go to Veil -Veilgarden. Somebody knows about it down there, I'm sure."</p><p> "Veilgarden."</p><p> "Do I hear an echo in here? Echo, echo..." She took a step back and looked at him with amusement. "Go on! You'll have some fun down there."</p><p> "I'm not here to enjoy myself."</p><p> "Men!" She laughed. "Go, go! I'm trying to drink, here."</p><p> He gathered his slip and his petals into their proper place and ventured back out to the docks. Right, then. Veilgarden.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. 1898: in which a Struggling Artist makes himself known</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> The dark and damp was no better in Veilgarden than anywhere else in London, but one may have been forgiven for assuming it so. The residents' shops and homes were adorned with a great many paper lanterns and other oddities which cast a dim red-orange glow on the cobbles. Just as the docks had bustled with noise and activity, so too did Veilgarden - though it was activity, the Composer noted, of an entirely different character than at the docks. No one here seemed particularly busy at anything save for debauchery - and debauchery of every kind, at that. He found himself turning his head quickly to avoid letting his eyes rest too long on any given half-dressed woman, who, from what little he did see, would inevitably seem quite tickled by his modesty.</p><p> Despite its status as a district of some ill repute, which he had surmised as much from his meeting with the American as from what he witnessed there, the artists' touch was evident in the incongruously cheery decorations set gaily here-and-there about the shopfronts and stoops. The Composer found himself jostled too much by the bustling passers-by and drunken revelers to enjoy any of it, though he knew he likely wouldn't have anyway. There was a certain distracting odor, and the cobbles were often sticky with...wine? He wasn't quite sure, but it was thoroughly disgusting. A tall young man, evidently some sort of half-drunk dandy, fell against him and giggled.</p><p> "Well, aren't you a sight for the sorest eyes," said the dandy.</p><p> "Please don't touch me." The Composer jerked away. "I'm quite busy."</p><p> The dandy laughed. "Here! Busy! Busy with what, the ladies? I tell you, it isn't any use trying to avert your eyes if you've got any hot blood in you."</p><p> The Composer rolled his eyes. "Business. It's none of your concern. Just...tell me where I might have a civilized conversation."</p><p> The dandy snorted. "Well, the Mandrake's that way, but I do hope you'll loosen up a bit while you're there!" He gave the Composer's face a pat. "With a face like yours, I dare say you'll do quite well among the set here in Veilgarden, if you've a mind for that sort of thing."</p><p> "Is everyone in this festering pit of a city so obsessed with...carnal matters?"</p><p> "Only those of us who have our priorities in order!" The dandy laughed. "Well, if you don't have your fun that way, I suppose I can't blame you. Whatever you do like, here's hoping you'll find it! Good day to you!"</p><p> "Good day."</p><p> The dandy shuffled off, and the Composer made his way to the Mandrake. It really wasn't much of a journey; the establishment had been visible from the moment the dandy pointed it out. Gingerly, the Composer peeked through the half-frosted window. The Mandrake's interior seemed just as boisterous and challenging as the bustling streets. He supposed there was nothing for it.</p><p> "Now THAT'S an unfamiliar face," boomed a moustached man immediately upon the Composer's entry. "Well, hello, hello, hello!"</p><p> The Composer felt himself wither. "Hello. I'm here on some rather important business."</p><p> "Oh, business, eh? Well, unless you're hoping to pick up a commission, I would venture to guess you're in the wrong place, sir!" He laughed, and shook the Composer's hand very bodily. "Pleasure to meet you, sir. Is it sir?"</p><p> "Of course it's sir." What an odd query.</p><p> "Well, we can't all be 'sir,' sir," laughed the moustached man, still shaking the Composer's hand. "I suppose you do things differently on the Surface, of course. German, I take it?"</p><p> "Yes." He extricated himself from the handshake. "The, ah...Thüringische Staaten. How are they referred to in the Queen's English, again?"</p><p> "Well, I wouldn't have any idea." He patted the Composer's shoulder. "We digress. What's this about business?"</p><p> He produced the little slip of paper and petals once again. "I would like to find the individual who last possessed these items, and where they came from."</p><p> The moustached man scratched his chin. "Mm, I wouldn't have any idea about that, either. I do know someone, but...hmm."</p><p> "What is it?"</p><p> "I could engineer you an invitation to her salon," said the moustached man, "but you'd have to be an artist of some sort. I'm an artist -"</p><p> "A struggling artist, at that!" shouted someone from another table. She was met with laughter.</p><p> "Hush, you!" The Struggling Artist shook his head and returned to his conversation with the Composer. "I've secured an invitation between my talents and our shared company. I doubt she would see any reason to extend an invitation to you unless you were to evince some skill at the arts."</p><p> "I am a composer," he said, quietly. He didn't feel entirely like one, anymore. All his compositions were very painful as of late.</p><p> "Well, that's splendid!" The Artist clapped the Composer on the back. "I'll arrange an invitation, then. Don't worry - it'll be a simple task. She loves me!"</p><p> The Composer certainly had his doubts about that. "I appreciate your efforts."</p><p> "Anything for a friend, old chap! I suppose we are friends now, yes? Well, no matter; if we aren't, we shall be very soon! How would you feel about a round of drinks, chum?"</p><p> Terrible. "I'd...love to."</p><p> "Excellent!"</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. 1890: in which a Dodger meets with a threat</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>This chapter contains content related to childhood sexual abuse. Read with caution.</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> Another cold day. No one seemed particularly interested in anything except getting inside, which certainly made his job easier. The Dodger let his leg dangle from the roof of a recently condemned seamstress' shop and took stock. Not many pockets worth pilfering, it didn't seem, but that was generally why one kept watch 'til the streets saw their share of traffic. At the very least he was evading notice with very little genuine effort on his part - always a plus when one was doing something illegal, or planning such. His stomach growled. It was close to evening, and not the prime of the day, but there was still the after-work rush home to consider.</p><p> There! In the top-hat! A fine silk top-hat was always a sure sign of a worthy target, and while the man seemed in no hurry, he was as distracted as one could be, checking his pocket watch conspicuously and breezily looking about while he loitered. What a bloody stupid toff! Had he any brain in his head, or had he never been to Spite at all? It was too easy, perhaps even suspiciously so, but the Dodger was willing to take the chance when a good hot meal was the potential reward.</p><p> He shimmied down from the rooftop and adjusted his hat behind the shop. He'd take the long route round to the street, play at being too busy to notice the hapless target, and liberate him of his possessions on his way past. Perhaps he could ask for the time and make his move when the man produced his pocket watch? Riskier, but doable with a man this dull. Really the possibilities were far too ample, and the unlucky gentleman far too distracted. He’d feel pity for the poor sod if his misfortune weren’t so damned convenient.</p><p> The alleyway he took opened onto the street not far from the toff, a few shops’ distance down the street. There was considerably more bustle now than there had been when he was watching from the roof a few minutes past - it seemed the rush of seamstresses and tailors released from their work was finally in full swing - but that only improved the chances of success in the venture. What luck, honestly! He had to keep from grinning. "Quick and easy," he mumbled. "Straight face, now. Quick and easy-like."</p><p> The toff was just as distracted as he had been a few minutes earlier. As he inspected his pocket watch for what seemed the hundredth time, the Dodger passed. He'd barely brushed his fingertips against the hapless fool's pocketbook when he felt a strong, broad hand grip his arm.<br/> Well, damn it.</p><p> With a quick but firm tug, his would-be target pulled him out of view of any passers-by, backing him into a wall round the corner. The Dodger couldn't help but notice that the strange man seemed almost elated to have had his pocket nearly picked. The toff tilted up the Dodger's face by the chin and inspected him thoroughly, taking an agonizing amount of time to do so. The Dodger at least had time to inspect him in return - he was a bearded man, one with a firm jaw, likely pushing on fifty years old.</p><p> "My, my," said the toff finally, after what seemed an eternity of deliberation. "A young lady with such handsome features as yours should hardly be picking pockets."</p><p> "What?" The Dodger's face grew warm very quickly. He squirmed a little.</p><p> "Are you all alone out here, miss?"</p><p> "I..." he started. What was there to say to that? Oh, this was terribly uncomfortable. Did this stranger really think he was so pretty as all that? He wasn’t a girl anymore, either.</p><p> The toff brushed a lock of hair out of the Dodger's face and removed his little cap. "Look at you! Goodness, you poor, tragic thing. Such a pretty young lady had ought to be doing honest work! Where are your parents?"</p><p> The Dodger gulped and tried to avoid making any more eye contact. "I, ah...well, I haven't got none, so I haven't."</p><p> "You're an orphan?"</p><p> "Well, generally where you haven't got parents you're an orphan, ain't it?"</p><p> Something in the toff's expression changed briefly, imperceptibly - some strange flash of his eye. "No honest work for you to do, no parents to care for you...poor, lovely creature," he insisted. He took a step closer, backing the Dodger a little further into the wall. "You should come with me, to my lodgings. It's hardly the sort of estate you deserve, but I should be able to provide you some comfort, and perhaps some pursuits of better repute than petty larceny."</p><p> Maybe the Dodger really was lucky, after all. He'd never stayed the night in a toff's lodgings before, and he expected the fare must be passing better than what he'd find at a dingy Spite public house. This all gave him a terribly bad feeling, of course, and he hardly wanted to play at being a girl, but it was better than another night sleeping in the bitter cold of the Flit. "I, ah..."</p><p> "Madam, I insist." He brushed another stray hair from the Dodger's face and cupped his hand around the youth's cheek, wearing a deeply pleading expression.</p><p> "Reckon I might as well, then..."</p><p> "Oh, thank you, my dear," said the toff, drawing the Dodger into a tight embrace. "Thank you. What is your name, my dear?”</p><p> If he was only to get by pretending to be a girl, giving his real name wouldn’t do. He’d have to give the name they’d used at the orphanage. “Violet, sir.”</p><p> “Violet,” repeated the toff. “What a pretty name.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. 1898: in which the Composer attends a most unusual salon</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> True to his word, the Artist had procured an invitation to the salon for the Composer with stunning alacrity. He was told the hostess was called the Charming Abbadonite, though he had little clue exactly what sort of oddity of character may have earned her such a colorful epithet. The Artist had warned him to behave as politely as possible, and to defer to the Abbadonite at all times during his visit. He was to refer to her not as "ma'am" or anything of the sort, but Advocate - one's mode of address was very rarely gendered down here, or so he was told, and to refer to her as if in ignorance of her occupation would be monumentally impolite. He was, in truth, a little intimidated.</p><p> Adding to his anxiety was the fact that the Abbadonite's salon possessed the singular distinction of being the first salon the Composer had attended for quite a while. Somehow he had expected of it something bordering on the familiar, or at least typical; now, confronted by the reality of the situation, he really felt quite silly at having expected anything familiar from London. Whatever was happening at this salon (for he wasn't entirely sure), he would certainly refrain from calling it typical, or even altogether normal. This was, in fact, highly unusual.</p><p> Most of the guests in attendance were of a sort he could not readily identify. They shared the rather fascinating characteristic of possessing the most peculiar eyes - bright, glowing even, and in a very unnatural hue. Golden? Bronze? It was difficult to tell. Whatever that meant, he couldn't begin to guess. Of his present company, a seldom few individuals seemed to have the usual ocular coloration; not counting himself, he spotted the Struggling Artist, the woman he assumed must be the Charming Abbadonite, and a rather shockingly boyish stranger, who apparently found it perfectly appropriate to attend a salon in his shirtsleeves as if it were a drunken boxing match.</p><p> The stranger, he noticed immediately, had the very precarious habit of tilting his wine glass to the side, as though he were entirely unsure how to hold it correctly. The Abbadonite pushed the rim of his glass into position without so much as a glance and fixed her eyes, instead, upon the Composer.</p><p> "There you are," remarked the Abbadonite. "I was concerned you'd gotten lost."</p><p> "My utmost apologies, Advocate." He gave a slight bow, which seemed to amuse her. "London is altogether...well, it is rather difficult to navigate here, as a foreigner."</p><p> "I would certainly expect so, dear." Her amusement only seemed to grow, and he suspected it was rather at his own expense. "Do come in. It is a frightful shame you missed the poetry."</p><p> He couldn't do much else but nod as she ushered him into the parlor. There was a distinctly disconcerting energy about the place, particularly those odd golden-eyed guests of hers, but it would have been terribly rude to remark upon it. The Struggling Artist flashed him an altogether too familiar smile, and added in a bit of a showy wave for good measure. One of the Abbadonite's golden-eyed guests leaned toward the stranger and whispered something, and he laughed raucously, nearly spilling wine on the poor Abbadonite's carpeting.</p><p> "Oh, do take care, dear," she said, seemingly untroubled by his poor decorum. He noted the pet name seemed much less condescending when directed toward the boyish stranger. "You'll spill that all across the carpet. I'm hardly running a public house."</p><p> "Ach!" He straightened his glass immediately. "Terrible sorry, m-mis- uh, m'lady." Well, that explained it - he didn't belong at any salon to begin with.</p><p> "I'm told our guest here is a composer," remarked the Abbadonite, addressing the boyish stranger and gesturing, of course, to the Composer. "I should think you'd be interested in hearing him present his work, yes?"</p><p> The stranger's face lit up. "Oh, why, wouldn't that be a right treat, I reckon!" He frowned, thinking further. "But only if he's any good. Too much of them society types isn't really any good, and says they is, what so when they've off and begun to singing and playing at the piano, well, it's a awful shock. I don't want none of that."</p><p> She smiled a little, clearly amused. "Do recall, now, these are hardly sentiments to be expressed in polite company. With their having been already expressed, however, I must confess I rather agree." The Abbadonite turned to the Composer with a teasing expression, tinged with a bit of genuine derision. "Dear Composer, please do refrain from playing for us if you aren't any good. That simply wouldn't do."</p><p> The Composer forced himself to smile and give a polite laugh. Normally he would have been amused at the (he assumed friendly) barb, but given circumstances, he didn't feel much like he wished to be here at all. "I assure you, Advocate, I should die of shame were I to subject you to a subpar performance."</p><p> "Then simply don't." She gave him another inscrutable look and encouraged him to sit at the piano.</p><p> He did as he was encouraged. His most recent score was hardly appropriate for entertaining at a salon, he thought, but his fingers practically itched to play it. It certainly suited his mood, if no one else's, at the very least. The first few measures passed, calculatedly discordant and dark, and as he played them he was aware of the mood in the salon changing subtly, an uncomfortable tension emerging from his somewhat captive audience. There was a pause.</p><p> The composition swelled here, picking up a desperate energy. The other guests at the salon faded from his mind. His fury, incandescent and feverish, channeled through the keys, the sick and giddy joy of every murderous vengeance fantasy, hollow loss, all with perfect candor. It was vehement, to hear, play and feel; his heart began to pound. In his mind was the funeral procession, the dead-eyed vacant stare he'd worn, and the promise he'd made, biting, hateful, his hand clenched into a fist so tight his nails cut him and drew blood. Hate, hate, hate, fury, blood, Elisabeth.</p><p> Then it was over. He rested his hands on the keys, feeling a little drained and a little disoriented. The room was silent, for a spell, while he collected himself. The Abbadonite, still standing beside him, gave a dry chuckle and something resembling applause. "Aren't you dark and mysterious."</p><p> He didn't know what to say to that. He turned to look to the rest of the room again. The strange golden-eyed guests of the Abbadonite's seemed similarly amused with his performance. The Artist seemed quite upset with him, for some reason. The boyish stranger was staring at him with wide, dark eyes and a flushed face. It took the stranger a moment to realize he was even being looked at, and when he did, he only managed to look away and put a hand to his chest. This gesture was followed by a rather violent coughing spell, which he aimed into the crook of his elbow.</p><p> "I do hope it was to your satisfaction, sir," said the Composer, continuing to hold his gaze on the stranger, "given you object so keenly to musical performance."</p><p> "Aah," replied the stranger, his face growing even redder. He coughed again. "I, hah."</p><p> "Good." He crossed his legs and glanced at the Abbadonite, who was giving him something of a filthy look.</p><p> "Well, I already gone and - I - I already - you - um, m'lord, you wasn't here, but what does you say if I was to read you, ah, some poems, what because you gone and gave such a real...well, your music, Mr. Sir..."</p><p> "What is it they call you, precisely?"</p><p> "The, um. Diminutive - diminutive Rake, ah, Your...Compositorialness."</p><p> He chuckled a little. "Well, if your conversational skills are any indication of what I should come to expect from your poetry, Your Rakishness, I should have to decline."</p><p> The Artist's eyes widened in shock. The Rake looked as though he might burst into tears. The Abbadonite and her golden-eyed guests, all in concert, glowered as if they wished him to drop stone dead on the spot. She was not, in the slightest, amused by his witticism.</p><p> "Perhaps you have overstayed your welcome, Composer. Shall I show you to the door?"</p><p> There was not much to say to that, either. He slunk to the door, and upon placing his hand on the knob, looked over his shoulder - the Abbadonite had not shown him anywhere, and had, in fact, turned her back on him entirely to castigate him to her guests. He caught the furious glance of a golden-eyed young lady and one more sight of the humiliated Rake before leaving the parlor.</p>
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<a name="section0006"><h2>6. 1898: in which the Rake meets with a friend</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> The Rake stretched, trying to keep his back comfortable in the worn wooden chair at his writing desk. Some Admiral or somesuch had asked him for an epic poem on fungi some time ago, and the only thing more dreadfully dull than doing the research was writing the thing. It was hardly gripping material, nor was the writing going well. Try as he might to stop them, his thoughts drifted again and again to the Abbadonite's salon earlier that afternoon.</p><p> Why the Abbadonite had invited that awful Composer to her salon the Rake would never know. He'd seemed fine enough at the outset - a little sullen, but pretty, and with good manners. A proper gentleman, even. He should've taken that as a warning in and of itself, really. Proper gentlemen never tended to treat him very well, especially if he took a liking to them. It was just his luck, he thought, especially after the Composer had played that strange piece that had piqued his interest and made him feel so fluttery. Fluttery was bad.</p><p> There resounded suddenly a rapping at his door, and he sprang up from his writing desk, producing an enormous rattling and nearly knocking over his well of ink. "Bloody - I'm COMING!"</p><p> "Take your time," said the visitor, though he couldn't quite make out who it was through the thick wooden door.</p><p> He trotted over and opened the door for his visitor. "Ah! So it's you, ah...your Impenitence!"</p><p> The Impenitent Devil chuckled. "Colorful, but I'll allow it." He put his hands in his pockets and tilted his head a bit to the side. "I thought perhaps I should check in on you after that display at the salon this afternoon."</p><p> Oh, how embarrassing. "Well, it weren't nothing I ain't used to, you know." Actually, the Composer had so injured him he'd come home and cried for half an hour, but there was no sense in saying so. "I don't care."</p><p> An inscrutably detached look from the Devil, as though the Rake were merely a glass container for something much more interesting. Whatever it was he was thinking of, it seemed to please him. He scratched his chin and let another agonizing moment pass before he spoke. "Did I interrupt your work?"</p><p> "It's no trouble," said the Rake. This, at least, was true. "I wasn't getting hardly nothing done anyhow."</p><p> "You could have just said yes."</p><p> He crossed his arms. "Maybe I ought to call you Your Impertinence." The Rake couldn't help but crack a smile.</p><p> "I didn't come here to be castigated," The Devil said, smiling in return.</p><p> "Let me finish this one little thing, and we'll go get us a pint at the Mandrake, eh?"</p><p> The Devil continued to smile subtly. "Of course."</p><p> The Rake nodded and turned back to the desk, quickly getting his papers in order and moving the inkwell to a less precarious position. He was about to settle in his chair when he realized there were no other seats in his little room. "Oh. Ah. You can sit on the bed." What a marvellously terrible host he was! Nothing for it, he supposed, when he was so unused to company.</p><p> The Devil said nothing to this, only quirking an eyebrow (how on Earth did he do that so cleanly?) and taking his seat. He made a little show of smoothing the duvet at his sides. The Rake settled back into his seat at the writing desk and looked over his half-finished poem with fresher eyes. Oh, this was a bit atrocious, wasn't it? There were glaring spelling mistakes, but he couldn't recall how to correct them at all. He groaned and scratched out a few words, rewriting what he suspected may have been the correct spellings over them.</p><p> "Having some difficulty?"</p><p> "Ah..." Should he say anything? The Devil was far and away the Rake's favorite of the Abbadonite's friends, and he'd never shown the man his unfinished work - he didn't want the Devil to think he was stupid, even if it was true.</p><p> Before the Rake could decide what to do, the Devil stood and came behind him to look over his writing. "Oh, you had that one right the first time." There was neither derision nor gentleness to his voice. "This, though...is it supposed to be 'indurate,' perhaps?"</p><p> "Um...yes."</p><p> "Well, you've got it all wrong. Give me that pen." He plucked it unceremoniously from the Rake's hand and leaned over him, unthinkingly pressing his chest to the back of the Rake's head as he redacted. "There. I - N - D - U - R - A -T - E. You see?"</p><p> The Rake felt a little sick, and leaned forward slightly to free himself of the unwanted contact. "Thank you," he said. "It's right tough spelling all these things."</p><p> The Devil cleared his throat. "You're doing well enough." He straightened up and took a half-step backward, but perched his hands at the back of the Rake's chair.</p><p> The Rake did his best to focus again, though it didn't help to have the Devil's eyes boring a hole in the back of his head. He was always uproarious fun at the Abbadonite's salons, leaning over with little jokes to whisper in the Rake's ear, but spending time with him in private like this was quite another matter, especially when he was trying to work. He couldn't tell what, exactly, had changed along with the change in setting, only that it was a little disquieting.</p><p> The clock ticked away. The Rake kept at his scribbling, having finally adjusted to the Devil's presence enough to focus. It was still a bit nerve-wracking. The Devil, for his part, seemed perfectly content with watching him write, motionlessly staring as though he had turned to marble. How this interested him the Rake had no clue, but he could clearly feel the fascination behind the Devil's intent gaze as he worked. Even with him being so quiet and still, it was a bit distracting - perhaps moreso than if he had simply been a chatty nuisance, which would certainly have been less unsettling at least.</p><p> Finally the anxiety set him to painful coughing again, and the Rake put his pen away as well as his unsteady hands would allow. No more of this, it would seem. The Devil tried to help him steady as he stood, but the Rake swatted his hands away. "I'm fine," he said. "I just need a - a -"</p><p> "Careful," said the Devil.</p><p> He opened his cabinet and seized the little bottle of laudanum within. Thank God he hadn't run out yet. He pulled out the stopper and took a decent swig immediately - he had stopped bothering to measure long ago. Much better. "There," he said, patting his chest gently to discourage any more hacking. "How's about we go and have us that pint now, eh?"</p><p> "You should probably stay home."</p><p> "Why?"</p><p> The Devil stared at him blankly for a few moments. "Fine," he finally managed. "But if you start that coughing again, I'll have to insist."</p><p> "Well, that's what the laudanum's for, innit?" He straightened his tie. "Come on, then."</p><p> He led the Devil to the door, a little bounce in his step. The Mandrake always cheered him up. He let the Devil out before him, then locked up behind them both, feeling a certain satisfaction at the click of the lock. It was always a pleasant sound. He put the key in his pocket and straightened up. The Devil, ever the gentleman, had already extended his arm for the Rake to hold while the two walked. The Rake was, after all, short enough to quickly escape notice on a busy street if not attached to a taller invididual - they did call him diminutive for a reason.</p><p> "Thank you kindly," he said, getting a firm grasp on the Devil's elbow. "Hardly want to get trampled out there!"</p><p> "Of course not." The Devil, he noticed, was very intently staring straight ahead.</p><p> They went downstairs together, luckily avoiding the blubbering of the bookshop's owner - it seemed he had already cornered an unfortunate customer for that. The little bell above the door rang cheerily as they left the warmth and light of the bookshop. It was chilly, as always, but the Rake found it a touch more bracing than usual, and huddled a bit closer to the Devil.</p><p> "Sorry," he added hastily. "It's just bloody cold."</p><p> "It's all right." He still wouldn't look at the Rake.</p><p> A young lady passed them on the street and gave a quizzical look, making the Devil stiffen a little. The Rake patted his arm. "Mandrake's not far. Nice and warm in there!"</p><p> "Right. Of course."</p><p> The evening was still fairly quiet. Most everyone, it seemed, had settled in at their intended locations - whether at home or out drinking - for a time, and it was not yet quite the hour at which Veilgarden's disorderly revelers were wont to begin spilling onto the streets for pub-crawls. The peace was quite improving, the Rake felt, and he almost wished they weren't going out for drinks. He sighed quietly and watched his breath lightly curl before him, wispy and white in the light of the streetlamps. Exhaling made him shiver a bit, as though he'd breathed the last of his warmth into the crisp air.</p><p> The Devil sighed, too. "You're still in your waistcoat," he said, apparently just noticing this.</p><p> "Overcoat's still all tore up," the Rake said. "Haven't had it fixed up for years now, I haven't. That'd be marvelous bad luck, I think."</p><p> The Devil clucked his tongue. "There's no point in having a coat if it's too ratty to wear. Here." He removed his coat and put it around the Rake's shoulders. The inside was impressively warm and toasty, though the Rake thought he might easily drown in it.</p><p> "How cosy!" exclaimed the Rake. He pulled the coat closed around himself, nestling in comfortably.</p><p> "Only so you don't have to cling to me so," the Devil qualified sternly.</p><p> "Ain't you sweet," teased the Rake. "Well, I'll give it back soon as we've got to the Mandrake. Wouldn't want to embarrass you, like."</p><p> "Think nothing of it," the Devil said. He fixed his gaze solidly forward again and put his hands in his pockets, since the Rake's were now occupied with his coat.</p><p> They walked in silence for a little while. It was more comfortable silence than when he'd been writing, and the Devil seemed more relaxed now, beyond his insistence in looking straight ahead. "D'you mind if I ask you something silly?"</p><p> "I believe you just did." The Devil grinned and looked at him from the corner of his eye.</p><p> The Rake laughed. "Bastard! You know what I mean."</p><p> "Go on, then."</p><p> "What is it souls look like, exactly?" He cleared his throat a bit. "Inside people, I mean. Where they ought to be. I seen 'em in jars plenty enough, but that's not natural, is it?"</p><p> The Devil tapped his chin. "I don't know if you would understand my explanation," he said. "Not for lack of intelligence, mind."</p><p> "Tell me anyway," said the Rake. "I'm so curious! Sometimes I get the oddest looks off you sorts."</p><p> "That hardly surprises me."</p><p> The Rake scoffed, and nearly tripped over a badly-laid cobble. "What's that supposed to mean, then!"</p><p> The Devil only laughed at him. "Think of your soul as a little electric light, with a thin blanket thrown over it."</p><p> "Wouldn't it catch fire?"</p><p> "It's a metaphor," said the Devil. "If the light is shining, you can see it through the blanket, and surmise its brightness and color. Of course, you can still see the sheet as well."</p><p> "Then everyone's like little glow-worms, is it?"</p><p> "Not quite so. It's a separate sort of perception from vision."</p><p> The Rake scrunched his face. "You're right. That's all nonsense." He shrugged the Devil's coat a little more closely around him, feeling the chill set in again. "What's that got to do with you lot giving me funny looks anyhow?"</p><p> "It would spoil things if I told you." The Devil smiled, almost wistfully.</p><p> "Fine. Have your little joke." He feigned great offense.</p><p> The Mandrake was there, finally, at the end of the street. "I'd be amused to know what you think it is," said the Devil.</p><p> "Would you, now!" The Rake laughed. "Don't you think that'd spoil the fun of it too?"</p><p> "I wouldn't ask you if I did."</p><p> "Unfair." He patted his chest to ward away a cough. "I reckon it's nothing to look at, probably."</p><p> "Is that so?"</p><p> "Well, that's if you're being nice. I'm sure it's the sort of thing what spirifers wouldn't want, and you lot neither." It wasn't a very pleasant thing to say, was it? No use bringing the mood down. "Like as not I'd be lucky to sell it for a penny!" He forced a laugh.</p><p> The Devil did not laugh with him.</p><p> "Oh!" He pushed the subject from his mind. "We're here already, ain't we! Take your coat back, 'less you'd want everyone thinking you sentimental." He shrugged the coat off and shoved it into the Devil's arms before hurrying inside.</p><p> He froze. Sitting in his favored spot by the Struggling Artist was that damnable Composer, face-down on the table. The nerve he had, coming here of all places! And in his seat! Bloody rat bastard! He scowled and balled his hands into fists. The Devil put his hand on the Rake's shoulder before he could get any angrier.</p><p> "Don't let that fool be any bother," said the Devil calmly. "He's beneath you."</p><p> "Nobody's beneath getting a piece of my mind!" He stormed over to the table.</p><p> The Artist met his eyes and immediately leapt from his seat to dissuade the Rake from advancing any further. He wore the apologetic smile of a child who had just broken his mother's favorite vase and was desperate to save himself from punishment. "My dear Rake! I'm so terribly happy to see you! How -"</p><p> "What's this bloody git doing in my spot!" It was more protest than question.</p><p> "Well -"</p><p> "Oh God," groaned the Composer. He slid into something resembling a sitting position. "It's you? How long has it been? What day is it?"</p><p> "Fancy that! A composer what can't even keep time!" The Rake put his hands on his hips and glowered down at the Composer. The Devil snorted.</p><p> "I suppose I rather deserved that," the Composer said, rubbing his eyes blearily. He stood and tried to put his hands on the Rake's shoulders.</p><p> The Rake jerked away. "Don't touch me," he warned.</p><p> "I'm only trying to -" the Composer stopped and took a deep breath. "Let me start over." He clasped his hands in front of himself. "What I said to you at the Abbadonite's salon was unworthy and cruel. There is no excuse for my atrocious behavior, and I deeply regret the harm I caused you. I am very, very sorry."</p><p> Clearly the Artist hadn't told him to say that, or it would have been less sincere and more offensive. Despite himself, the Rake felt very touched - it was rare anyone from the society set would bother to apologize to him, especially with such genuine contrition. He sighed deeply. "Water under the bridge, then, I reckon." He crossed his arms. "But you won't get invited to any more salons, like. The Abbadonite don't tolerate slights. She always remembers."</p><p> The Composer looked defeated. "No, I wouldn't expect so."</p><p> "It was really a little impressive, what with you going on like that in front of all those devils."</p><p> "Devils?" The Composer paled.</p><p> "He's a new arrival," explained the Artist. "From the Surface, obviously."</p><p> The Composer stared at the Devil in wide-eyed terror. The Rake couldn't help but burst into laughter. Thank God he'd taken laudanum earlier in the evening! "Oh, you poor thing! No wonder! You didn't know!"</p><p> "That's very unfortunate." The Devil grinned, revealing his fangs. The Composer looked as though he might faint, and wobbled a bit.</p><p> "Well, well! Don't go falling over, we'll never peel you off the floor," teased the Rake.</p><p> The Composer, contrary to the Rake's expectations, did begin to fall over. The Rake rushed to his side and caught him before he could hit his head on the floor. He was clearly exhausted - he must have been sleeping when the Rake came in. "I'm sorry," mumbled the Composer.</p><p> "It's no trouble," said the Rake, helping him to his feet. "You're not hurt or nothing?"</p><p> "No, I'm fine," said the Composer. "Only tired."</p><p> "You ought best go home, then." He felt much the same as he had at the salon.</p><p> The Composer swore, some German word the Rake didn't recognize. "I haven't arranged a place to stay," he said. "I can hardly believe I forgot."</p><p> "Don't worry your pretty head," said the Rake. He scrounged from his pockets a calling card and the key to his room above the bookshop. "Go to my place and get some sleep if you likes. Just let me in when I get back, will you?"</p><p> The Composer took the card and the key from his hands with a look of sadness. "I would hate to impose, after everything -"</p><p> "'Course I'm still a little hurt," interrupted the Rake, "but it'd be right awful leaving you with no place to stay the night, eh? Off with you, then! It's just down the street, only five minutes' walk."</p><p> "Thank you," said the Composer. "Really, thank you."</p><p> "Off!" He smiled and shooed the Composer away.</p><p> The Artist waited for the Composer to leave before speaking. "What did you go and do a thing like that for?"</p><p> "I don't bloody know," the Rake groaned.</p><p> "You should have let him figure it out himself," said the Devil. "He would have deserved it."</p><p> "I know! I'm so bleedin' stupid."</p><p> "Not stupid," said the Devil. "You're too kind."</p><p> The Rake sighed. "Well, he's off to bed now, I s'pose. How's about that pint?"</p>
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<a name="section0007"><h2>7. 1898: in which the Composer is thoroughly buttonholed</h2></a>
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    <p> The address scrawled on the sad, crumpled little "calling card" the Rake had given him wasn't far from the Mandrake at all, and somehow he'd managed to carry his heavy traveling bag there both undisturbed and without finding himself utterly lost - quite a feat in London even when one was perfectly alert, which he was most certainly not. At least, he was fairly sure this was the correct address - that was, after all, what was enumerated in embossed metal numbers on the side of building. But why on Earth would he live in a dreary bookshop? Perhaps the addresses in this damnable place scuttled around as well as the streets. The proprietor would know for certain.</p><p> Hesitantly, the Composer pushed open the door and stepped in. Immediately he was assaulted with the scent of moldering old books and dust, and coughed slightly at the intrusion upon his senses. The shop bell above the door rang with unwarranted gaiety; alerted to its call, a hunched man with a lined and drooping face shuffled blearily to the Composer, thoroughly trapping him in the shop's cramped vestibule.</p><p> "Ah...excuse me," said the Composer, "are you...the proprietor here?"</p><p> The hunched man opened his mouth to speak, but seemed choked for words; he instead began to sob, at first voicelessly, then with a great blubbering gusto. Apparently unable to support himself, he leaned half-collapsed upon the hapless Composer, hiccupping without a shred of dignity into his lapels.</p><p> Well. "I...see," said the Composer. What else was there to say? "If it isn't an inconvenience, there is the matter of this calling card," he continued.</p><p> The hunched man only wailed in response. "S-such a, a well-mannered...well-mannered young man, you, you are," he managed between sobs.</p><p> "Right," replied the Composer, trying in vain to wrest himself from the hunched man's grip and wriggle aside into the shop proper, "oh, thank you, of course. Now, about the address -"</p><p> "Oh, God!" sobbed the hunched man.</p><p> Oh, God, indeed. He froze in place, still awkwardly positioned, and let the hunched man cry pathetically on him for a while longer while he assessed his options. "A young man gave me his calling card," said the Composer, finally, "if you could call it that, which directed me to this address. Does he...live here?"</p><p> The hunched man perked up a bit. "Oh, yes! Such - such a nice boy! Such a - such -" he began, before his speech devolved into pitiful blubbering again.</p><p> The Composer sighed, tossing his head back and letting it hit the wall. "There, there," he said mechanically, rolling his eyes and patting the hunched man's back as he sobbed. "Yes, yes. There you are."</p><p> After much sniffling and whimpering, the hunched man finally composed himself enough to give a coherent response. "He's upstairs," said the hunched man, his voice still a bit unsteady. "Not in at the moment, but his rooms are upstairs." He dabbed at his eyes with a clearly overworked handkerchief as he spoke.</p><p> "Thank you," said the Composer, attempting to keep his exasperation to himself. He took a few steps into the bookshop, eyes fixed on the stairwell in the very back.</p><p> "Wait," said the hunched man. "Don't - don't go - up and -"</p><p> "Don't cry!" yelped the Composer. "No more crying," he tried again, more gently this time.</p><p> The hunched man sniffled and daubed a little more forcefully at his eyes with the handkerchief. "Would you - have a - a cup of tea with me?" he asked, though it was such a plaintive request he may as well have begged on his knees to much the same effect.</p><p> The Composer's shoulders slumped, further exhaustion and irritation creeping over him like a thick fog. "Of course," he replied, barely masking his vexation any longer, "let us make a pause for some tea, of course."</p><p> "Thank you," said the hunched man sheepishly. "It seems almost -" here, a sniffle - "almost no one has any interest in taking tea with me these days."</p><p> "I shouldn't expect so," said the Composer. Oh no. Too cruel. That would set him crying again. "People in this age are quite self-concerned," he added hastily, "especially the youth. It's quite sad."</p><p> "Yes," whimpered the hunched man, "quite - quite sad indeed!" Despite the Composer's efforts, he broke into another round of sobs.</p><p> They'd be taking tea in six months' time at this rate. "Here," said the Composer, attempting to sound gentle, "let me get the tea ready for you, sir."</p><p> "What a - a charming lad - you are," bawled the hunched man. "The kettle - it's -"</p><p> "I see it," replied the Composer quickly. He made his way past the counter to a little corner with a furnace, which he supposed served as the clerk's place for taking meals. There, near the stove, was a kettle, and next to that a pitcher of water; the Composer prepared these as the hunched man cried. He hadn't made tea himself since he was very young, he realized, long before his mother had enlisted the help of any servants. Attending to the nostalgic task calmed his nerves a little, and he felt a twinge of guilt at his previous irritation with the poor, lonely shopkeeper.</p><p> "The - the boy living upstairs," hiccupped the hunched man, "used to take tea with me more often. But he -" here he blew his nose - "he's been busy with his work lately."</p><p> The Composer nodded. "Poetry and such, I take it."</p><p> "All sorts of writing," said the hunched man. "Penny dreadfuls, poems..."</p><p> He laughed a little. "Really! Penny dreadfuls? I suppose there's nothing for it." The Composer took a quick look about the shop, searching for the tea set.</p><p> "I suppose," agreed the hunched man. "Though, if you ask me, it isn't such an awful way to go. I would guess he likes it." He sniffled again. "I - I wish my work was - so pleasant as -"</p><p> "Hush, it's all right," said the Composer. "Where is it you keep your tea set, exactly?"</p><p> The hunched man reached under the counter and produced two shabby tea cups and their accompanying dishes, along with a terribly battered-looking teapot. "I'm - I'm dreadfully sorry it isn't much," he managed.</p><p> "Oh, dear," said the Composer. "Well, I suppose it shall suffice, in any case." He rubbed his eyes.</p><p> The hunched man's eyebrows lifted into the folds of his forehead in surprise. "Are you tired?"</p><p> The Composer smiled a little. "Yes," he admitted, a touch embarrassed at his poor manners in making it so plain. "My ship landed at about eight this morning, and I am quite unsure what time it is now, or how long I have been awake."</p><p> A look of concern overtook the hunched man's face, and he pulled from his breast pocket a timepiece just as battered as his teapot. "It's nearly midnight," he remarked. "I - oh, I'm so sorry to have been a - a bother - you're staying with - oh, you must be - so - so terribly c-cross -"</p><p> Now he truly felt despicable. "Oh, no, no," he replied, "I'm hardly cross at all, only rather worn, you see - don't, ah, don't cry -"</p><p> The hunched man was having none of it. "Please," he blubbered, "I - let me show you up-upstairs - h-here! Come, co-come!" He took the Composer's hand and led him to the stairwell, up three winding flights and past two other doorways to their final destination: a sad-looking door afflicted with a terrible coat of cracked and peeling white paint.</p><p> "I'll take tea with you tomorrow," said the Composer, feeling he should offer some small appeasement.</p><p> "You don't - don't have to," sniffled the hunched man. "No one -" here, a hiccup - "wants to take tea with me, at any - any rate."</p><p> He shuffled down the stairs mournfully, punctuating every five or six steps with a terrible wail. The Composer sighed and dug around in his coat pockets until he found where he had left the little key to the Rake's rooms. He jiggled it into the lock, which didn't seem quite willing to accept it at first, and turned it with a bit of force. Hopefully, for all the comforts the Rake's poverty clearly deprived him of, a serviceable bed wouldn't be among them.</p><p> The door stuck a bit and made a great crackling nose as it opened - apparently it didn't quite fit in the doorframe as it ought to. The Rake's rooms were just as humble and depressing as the doorway would lead him to believe. All about the walls were various broadsides, in almost uniformly atrocious condition - advertisements for a wild assortment of products, apparently kept for the novelty of their Jugendstil illustrations. To his immediate left was a worn and beaten vanity dresser, upon whose top were scattered various knick-knacks and papers; its mirror was cracked and dirty. There were a handful of unlit candles here and there, but currently the only light in the room emanated from a small kerosene lamp positioned just in front of the mirror.</p><p> Toward the back wall of the bedroom towered a hideously ancient cabinet, the door of which was plastered with yet another Jugendstil poster for some theatrical extravaganza from a good five or six years hence - though this one, it seemed, was signed by the production's leading lady. The busty young woman in the illustration, dressed in a rather scandalous flower-fairy costume, was incredibly distracting; it was rather a wonder, thought the Composer, the Rake would choose to keep her image in such proximity to his writing desk, which was positioned only a few feet away, neatly tucked under the room's lone shabbily-curtained window. The desk's surface, unlike its position, was hardly neat by any stretch of the imagination - really, thought the Composer, it was far worse than the vanity.</p><p> To the right, finally, was the Rake's bed. It was little better than a cot, and piled messily with a surprising number of threadbare blankets. Apparently the Rake had decided at one point he would like to have a canopy, for he had nailed to the bedframe four broom handles; precariously draped across them was a garishly pink moth-eaten tarp of some sort, which had been clumsily cut into sections so that the Rake might tie it up. Further adding to the silliness of the display, the bed was lined up flush to the wall, rendering the whole canopy a little lopsided. Framed by the parted 'curtain' of tarp (or whatever it was) on the wall, hung with care above the bed, was a final piece of art - not a weathered Jugendstil advertisement, but a legitimate painting of a pleasantly sunlit pastoral scene.</p><p> The Composer set his traveling bag on the battered hardwood floor at the foot of the bed and took a seat. The mattress was, at the very least, acceptable; it was hardly as comfortable as his bed at home, but that was certainly to be expected. He reached back and untied his hair, shaking it out gently as he did so. He thought of Elisabeth tying her hair back with the same ribbon before she'd given it to him. The memory felt as though it might tear him in two. He tried to focus on removing his boots instead.</p><p> Finally he opened his traveling bag and dug out his diary, tied with string to a cedar pencil. He hadn't written since boarding the steamer at the Cumaean canal. Hastily, he flipped to the place he had last left off.</p><p><br/>                      <em>Dearest Elisabeth,</em></p><p>
  <em>                               Please forgive my lack of correspondence as I am very tired. Will write briefly tonight, more in the morning. Travel has been bad. Boat trip was dead tiring. Arrived in London 8 oclock. Such a queer place. Attended a salon, behaved boorishly. Insulted a guest, some social climber or poet. You would laugh at me. Saw him again at a pub (awful place). He has let me stay in his rooms for the night. Very confusing man. I believe he is friends with an awful moustached dunce and a devil. Real devils here! Frightening beyond belief. He was gold eyes and all sharp teeth. Terrible.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>                              Haven't made progress, much. Tomorrow I'll ask again. I know you wouldn't approve. Don't scold me.</em>
</p><p>
  <em>                        Yours forever.</em>
</p><p> </p><p> He tied the volume carefully again and nestled the pencil between the string and the leather cover. His traveling bag fit nicely under the shabby bed, and as he settled in, he realized he was in fact quite comfortable. Sleep would not be long now. Hopefully the Rake wouldn't come home til morning.</p><p> </p><p> </p>
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<a name="section0008"><h2>8. 1898: in which the Composer bungles everything, again</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p> "Put me down," protested the Rake. "I'm fine!"</p><p> "I told you it was inadvisable," replied the Devil. "You simply didn't listen."</p><p> The Rake kicked and wriggled, but he was still a touch clumsy from drinking, and it did little to dislodge him from the Devil's surprisingly strong bridal carry. "I didn't even get to finish my pint!"</p><p> The Devil ignored him in favor of the Artist. "Get the door," he instructed.</p><p> "I don't have the key," said the Artist.</p><p> "I doubt that sullen little dandy will have locked it."</p><p> "Listen," tried the Rake. He cupped the Devil's cheek with one hand and gave his sideburn a good firm pat. "Listen. I'm fine to off and have a drink. Just one."</p><p> "You've already had a drink," replied the Devil, stony as ever.</p><p> "No I haven't! I didn't finish it!"</p><p> The door crackled open. The Artist laughed. "Genuine question: is laudanum not enough for you?"</p><p> "It hasn't done nothing but stop me from coughing. And my pint only did a little, on account of someone rushing me off home 'fore I could drink it!"</p><p> The Devil shook his head and carried the Rake inside. "You're well aware if I let you get any more soused than this, the Abbadonite would have my head stuffed and mounted on her wall."</p><p> "She would never. And I'm not even soused! I could say my letters back and forward, I could! Z, Y - oh, hush!" He'd almost forgotten about the Composer. "He's still sleeping."</p><p> "I say he hasn't earned the right," replied the Devil.</p><p> "Be nice," said the Rake.</p><p> The Artist took one of the Rake's hands and looked him in the eye with a level of concern that bordered on theatrical. "You'll be all right when he sets you down, won't you?"</p><p> "Oh, shove it. I only slipped on some something-or-other what someone spilled! I'm not in my cups!" He yanked his hand away and sulked. "Keep your bloody hands off me."</p><p> The Devil chuckled a little and finally set him down. "Stay out of trouble, now." He gave the Rake's head a little pat for good measure.</p><p> "Both of you're so patronizing, ain't you! I ought to mount your heads on the wall myself."</p><p> The Artist laughed  and waggled his eyebrows suggestively. "That wouldn't be so awful, if it meant I could look at you all day and night."</p><p> "Eugh," groaned the Devil simply.</p><p> "I could always scoop out your eyes with a spoon, you filthy...filthy..." The Rake was rather at a loss for words.</p><p> "Deviant? I rather like that one." The Artist crossed his arms proudly.</p><p> "Out of my house." Despite his irritation, he was smiling. "Both of you! Out of my house!"</p><p> The Artist shuffled to the stairwell in mock rejection. The Devil's hand flew to his chest. "Oh, such injury! What have I done - what sin have I committed, that I should earn such callous treatment, such cold and unforgiving scorn!"</p><p> "You picked me up like a little dog, you did!"</p><p> "You shouldn't have been the size of a little dog, then."</p><p> The Rake shooed the Devil out to the stairwell, all the while trying not to laugh. "Go on. Go on. Get out of here," he giggled. The Devil pretended to be choking back tears as the Rake closed the door.</p><p> He took a deep breath and exhaled slowly as he settled into the quiet of his bedroom. Everything seemed to be exactly where he'd left it - the Composer almost certainly hadn't touched anything. Just to be sure, he even took a little peek at the cabinet, and was quite relieved to find everything in its proper place. The Composer may have been a haughty rich bastard, but at least he wasn't nosy - the latter sin was beyond unforgivable.</p><p> The Composer hadn't bothered to change out of his street clothes or even remove his coat before crawling into the Rake's bed. He must have been quite exhausted, thought the Rake. He'd elected to curl up atop the duvet, for some odd reason, and half the blankets he'd pulled on seemed to have been kicked off. He'd untied his long, dark hair, and, admittedly, looked quite picturesque with it splayed across the Rake's white pillows. Of course, the Rake was quick to remind himself, gentlemen like the Composer were dangerous. But just looking wasn't any harm.</p><p> It wouldn't be any harm to tuck him in properly again, either, thought the Rake. He did look rather chilly like that. Gingerly, so as not to wake him, the Rake tugged the cast-off blankets up to the Composer's shoulders, and wrapped him up the best he could without making any contact. The Composer grunted and stirred a little.</p><p> "Was that you, earlier?" he mumbled, eyes still closed.</p><p> "Sorry to bother you," said the Rake. "I didn't mean nothing by it."</p><p> "Mm." The Composer shifted a bit more before finding what seemed like another comfortable position. "Good night."</p><p> How disgustingly endearing! "Good night," replied the Rake softly, hoping perhaps the Composer would go directly to Hell.</p><p> No more gawking. He had a rule about this sort of thing. The Rake hurried from the bedside and sat determinedly at his writing desk. He would write about the stupid Colonel's stupid mushrooms until he died of boredom or went mad, and simply never think of pretty men again. Easy. So easy. He'd rhyme "gills" with "frills" and it would be terrible doggerel trash and it would make him all the money in the world, and he would pay a fancy surgeon a thousand Echoes to remove his heart so he might never feel anything again.</p><p> He closed his eyes and sighed, feeling rather stupid. He didn't know this man at all, beyond having been viciously insulted by him a few hours earlier. So what if he happened to be attractive? And so what if he'd apologized so nicely? It wasn't worth getting worked up over either way. If he developed some kind of pathetic crush on every attractive gentleman who insulted him, apologies notwithstanding, he'd fall in love with half of London. He simply wouldn't let it come to that. It wasn't even anything anyway. Was it? This line of thought was decidedly non-fungal. Damn it. Damn it. Damn -</p><p> "I can't sleep," said the Composer quietly.</p><p> "Well, ain't that just too bad!" snapped the Rake. He grimaced. "I'm sorry," he added, after an uncomfortable pause. "I just, ah...am working." That wasn't convincing. "Real hard."</p><p> "The proprietor said as much," mumbled the Composer. "You haven't been taking tea with him as often, he said."</p><p> The Rake frowned. "No, I haven't, and I feel right awful about it too." He turned in his chair to face the Composer. "Must've cornered you, eh? Poor bloke."</p><p> "I found myself very annoyed at first," said the Composer, smiling faintly, "and then very guilty at having been so annoyed."</p><p> "He has that effect about him," laughed the Rake, quietly. "He's harmless enough, though. Only a little lonely. 'Least, that's what I reckon's wrong with him."</p><p> The Composer clutched the Rake's pillow a little more tightly, looking decidedly forlorn. "Yes."</p><p> Something about the Composer's expression saddened the Rake as well. "I won't bother you any more," he said, warmly as he could manage. "Bet you're still awful tired."</p><p> The Rake turned back to his writing desk. "Frills" and "gills," that was right - stupid rhyme, still, but so was the premise of the poem to begin with. His thoughts drifted instead to grilled mushrooms. Oh, sweet baby Jesus in the manger, he would kill for a plate of nicely grilled mushrooms. His stomach growled softly. He'd get some crackers in a minute - it would be terribly awkward to eat in front of the Composer while he was still awake. This stanza wasn't coming out half-bad, anyway, even if he was terribly distracted.</p><p> "I have a question," the Composer said.</p><p> "Hm?" The Rake didn't look up from his writing.</p><p> "How do you focus on your work with such an indecent image of a young woman next to your writing desk?"</p><p> The Rake snorted. "What? That thing? Nothing I ain't seen before."</p><p> The Composer gasped softly, apparently a little scandalized. "Have some decorum," he urged. "Think of what those poor girls would say."</p><p> That really was too much. The Rake laughed heartily, until his chest began to hurt and he was afraid he'd have another coughing fit. "Oh," he breathed, wiping a tear from his eye, "you silly git. I - girls? Oh no. Oh, no, no." He shook his head and dipped his pen again, trying to summon the focus to continue writing. "Me and girls. Can you imagine!"</p><p> "Well, then, how exactly would you have seen such a thing?"</p><p> "That's my little secret," teased the Rake. Really, this Composer was a bit daft, wasn't he? "Maybe you ought to have another look at it, and you'll figure it out."</p><p> "That would be untoward," protested the Composer.</p><p> "Well, then, maybe you ought to go back to sleep and let me write."</p><p> The Composer huffed and rolled over. "Well, good night," he replied.</p><p> "Night, then."</p><p> The Rake chuckled again and went back to his writing. Perhaps it wasn't such a bad thing he hadn't noticed.</p><p> The Composer tried to roll back over surreptitiously, but the Rake heard him. "Did you attend that show?"</p><p> "Huh? Oh, no, no. I was in it." So the Composer was <em>completely</em> daft. He probably shouldn't have been telling him this, but it wasn't like he'd put the pieces together.</p><p> "Ah, I see," replied the Composer. "She must have been a friend of yours, then."</p><p> "Something like that." He let himself enjoy the joke of it for a moment. "What's gotten into you, anyhow? Figured you wouldn't want to go and talk with someone what's so 'uncivilized' and so forth."</p><p> "It wouldn't be my first choice," he said. Rat bastard. "But I suppose I have no other friends at present."</p><p> "Well, you're like to have no friends at all if you keep on like that." The Rake crossed out a misspelling with unwarranted vehemence.</p><p> "My apologies."</p><p> "Sure, sure," he said dismissively. "If everyone down here's so objectionable to you I can't see why you'd bother on coming in the first place."</p><p> The Composer sat up abruptly. "I'm not in this dismal hellhole for some day trip, you know!"</p><p> "Then go back where you came from!" the Rake shouted. He turned around to look the Composer in the eye. "You don't live here! What right've you got to go and complain?!"</p><p> "I can't just go home!"</p><p> "Then quit whining and get used to it!" He put his hands between his knees and gripped the seat of his chair until his knuckles were white. "I hate people like you. You think just 'cause life's rough down here for regular folk you have the right to bitch and moan. What, like it's worth something!"</p><p> "That's not -"</p><p> "I'm not bloody finished!" He leaned over. "You can shape up and live in the real world with the rest of us, or you can frolic all dainty with society folk, but you can't do both. So choose."</p><p> "Seeing as you're so clearly concerned with advancing your own station," spat the Composer, "perhaps you'd best take your own advice first."</p><p> "THAT'S IT!" The Rake stood so abruptly he nearly knocked his chair over. "I can't take any more of this bloody nonsense from you! I could - I could - UGH!" He pushed the chair under the writing desk so hard it rattled. "You're right lucky I'm nice as I am or I'd put you back out in the cold!" He stormed over to his vanity and dug his battered overcoat out of the bottom drawer.</p><p> "Where are you going?" asked the Composer, with the gall to act like he was worried.</p><p> "None of your bloody business where I'm going, ratbag!" He stomped into the stairwell and slammed the front door behind him.</p><p> Bastard. Bastard! What an awful bastard! He couldn't believe that pathetic apology at the Mandrake had moved him. What a lie! What an awful trick! The Rake blustered out of the bookshop and kicked a little stone with such force it clattered clear across the street. Of course the Composer hadn't learned a thing. Why would he? People like him never did. Maybe he'd run off to his fancy estate with his tail between his legs and have his wealthy mum and dad coddle him. Great! The Rake didn't care what happened to the bleeder as long as he was gone.</p><p> He set out for the Mandrake. It wasn't a pleasant walk in this kind of mood, and even less so without company. The bitter cold from earlier in the evening still persisted, eliciting a few shivers from him when his battered coat and anger weren't enough to keep him warm. The Rake sniffled and pulled his coat in closer, trying to conserve what heat he could. Stupid. He was so stupid to think someone like that could really be contrite, or want to speak with him at all. This was all his own fault. Of course the Composer would act like that. Maybe he was right, anyway - how could the Rake pretend trying to be a real writer didn't open him up to insults like that? He was too desperate for approval, begging for scraps like a sad animal.</p><p> By the time he was finally at the Mandrake's door, he wasn't sure he wanted to be there at all. The Mandrake always cheeed him up, of course. But maybe tonight he should just be alone. It'd be better not to bother the Devil and the Artist with his problems, anyway, he thought. He didn't want to be obnoxious. But the thought of sitting next to his friends in the warm pub was too appealing, and he was weak. There was nothing for it. He'd keep it to himself next time, he resolved.</p><p> He stepped inside and immediately another patron fell haphazardly against him, making him feel like his skin was on fire. He pushed them away without much spirit and headed to the usual table, unsure of what to say.</p><p> "I thought we took you home," said the Artist. He took a proper look at the Rake, and his expression changed. "What's wrong?"</p><p> "I'm going to kill that bloody Composer!" shouted the Rake, and immediately he dissolved into tears. "Stupid bastard! Stupid, st-stupid bastard! I hate - I hate him! I wish he was de-e-ead!"</p><p> "Oh, poor thing," cooed the Artist. "Come here."</p><p> The Rake plunked down in his usual seat, still bawling. "I h-hate that bl- that bloody - idiot t-toff! He - in my - in my own h-house - went and ins-sulted me again!"</p><p> "Don't feel discouraged," the Artist continued. "I think your poor elocution is adorable."</p><p> "Would you shove it!" snapped the Rake. He smacked the Artist's head. It was almost like their normal horseplay, but the Artist's remark had only served to make him feel worse. The tears welled up in his eyes again, and he couldn't hold back another round of sobs. "I - I j-just - it's - it's fine if it's some, some, someone what I don't know, but - he - he - apologized! And - and it was - he - he li-i-ied!"</p><p> The Devil reached over the table and patted the Rake's shoulder reassuringly. "He's beneath you. They all are."</p><p> The Rake sniffled and pulled himself together. "I wish you were right," he muttered. "But it's those types what make all the rules. Far as they're concerned, I'm worthless." He took a deep, shuddering breath. "Really, they're - they're prob'ly right."</p><p> "One of us can rough him up for you," said the Artist. "Or both of us!"</p><p> "Please," replied the Devil. "You couldn't 'rough up' a wet paper bag. I'll do it."</p><p> "Don't do that!" The Rake felt like he might cry again. "Even if he deserves a little roughing up."</p><p> "More than a little," said the Devil. "Not that such affairs concern me any longer, mind you. But I would make an exception in this case."</p><p> The Rake stared blankly at the table for a moment. "I don't want to go home tonight," he said finally. "I know I can't let him have run of my rooms like he lives there, but I just can't bear to look at his awful face."</p><p> "You could always withdraw your welcome," the Devil reminded him. "I'd be more than happy to assist you."</p><p> The Rake shook his head. "I couldn't make nobody sleep out in the cold, no matter what." He sighed. "I'll make him leave in the morning. And then I'll tell the Abbadonite on him. She'll know what to do."</p><p> "Good thinking," said the Artist. "She's quite the woman, that Abbadonite."</p><p> "Heh. Ain't she?" The Rake smiled a little. She'd always been a wonderful friend to him.</p><p> "I suppose, circumstances being as they are, I could allow you another pint," said the Devil, a smug smile creeping across his face.</p><p> "I'm a grown man!" the Rake laughed. "You can't tell me how many pints I ought to have!" Already he felt a little lighter. Going to the Mandrake always cheered him up.</p>
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